by Bruce Bethke
First voice: "Sir? Now do you understand why we're having so much trouble pacifying Volodya? There's only a handful of rebels left alive, but they're fighting like devils. Can you blame them?"
There was silence for a bit, as the camera panned over the awful sight in the room. Then the other voice spoke up: "Burn them." The camera whirled, and came to rest on a figure in a blue battlesuit with one gold star on the helmet.
"Sir?"
"That's an order, Bowen! The minute you get air restored, get some plasma guns in here and incinerate everything. Not one speck of organic matter is to remain. Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir ... I mean, no, sir. I don't—"
"This. Never. Happened." Jackson enunciated each word like a gunshot. "Got that? Find the battlesuit vid records. Grab the remote probes. Erase everything. Then burn the erased cores. If it ever leaks out that our troops did something like this, the UN won't even bother with a war crimes trial!"
The video cut back to the image of the grim Colin Covert, standing in front of the United Nations. "It is now clear that the destruction of Volodya was neither an accident nor an act of terrorism but rather a suicidal act of war. There is obviously some kind of violent revolution going on up there, to what extent we do not know, but the Security Council has clearly gone to extreme and illegal measures to cover this up.
"The fallout from these new revelations is certain to be dramatic and widespread. Already members of Congress are demanding a full investigation and threatening to cut off all U.S. funding for United Nations military operations. In Great Britian, the House of Commons has scheduled a vote for tomorrow on whether to pull out of UN peacekeeping operations, and a similar measure is currently being debated in the Japanese Diet. While Russia has expressed a cautious—"
Adams switched off the screen and turned around with a smug smile on his face. "Well, gentlemen? It looks like we've got a guardian angel down on Earth. Shall we crack that bottle of champagne we've been saving?"
Pieter von Hayek looked at Josef. Josef returned the same meaningful look. Both shook their heads, then turned to Adams.
"No," Pieter said. "Now we hit them." Adams couldn't quite believe his ears. "What?"
Josef nodded. "They're in check. Let's go for the mate."
Adams started to hyperventilate. "Are you kidding? Didn't you just..." He gestured at the blank UNET screen, temporarily at a loss for words. "ATFOR is on the verge of collapse. All we have to do is sit tight and wait!"
Josef shook his head. "That's not what General Consensus says. A clear victory now would be the master stroke. We can bring the Security Council to its knees."
Pieter looked at Josef, and they exchanged that meaningful glance again. Pieter stroked his chin. "Lacus Mortis."
Josef nodded. "Exactly. Strike while they're in chaos. Destroy the gunships or capture them if we can."
Adams took a few deep, slow breaths, then tried one more time. "Look: Pieter, Josef. All we have to do—"
They turned and looked at him. "We've got a plan," one of them said.
Adams would never be sure which of them had said that.
New York City
18 November 2069
03:00 A.M. EST
The bedside comm unit chirped. This time, Jurgen was wide awake and ready for it.
"Senor Aguila! Good news. I've figured out the rebels' smuggling scheme; they've been shipping disassembled materiel up to the Moon piece by piece, disguised as mining equipment, and assembling it there, and they've been doing it for ten years. And this MANTA thing: it's not a weapon at all. It appears to be a portable teleport receiver."
Aguila was struck silent for a moment—but only a moment. "Very good. But I'm not interested in that now. I've got a more important assignment for you."
Jurgen's excitement and sense of achievement burst like a balloon. Again. "Now what?"
"Did you see that report on GNN this evening?"
"You mean last night? Yeah. Pretty ghastly, innit?"
"The reporter said the video was leaked by a highly placed United Nations source."
Jurgen shrugged. "Isn't that what reporters always say?"
"Jurgen?" Something in the tone of Aguila's voice warned the younger man, and he thumbed the comm unit volume down.
"Find me that leak!"
Port Aldrin, Luna
20 November 2069
11:00 GMT
Dalton, Britt, and Jeff Mahoney had been on the run for six days straight, bouncing from dome to dome, spoofing the computers, installing MANTA receivers, and sometimes ferrying ATFOR prisoners.
It was a dizzying job, but Dalton didn't mind. It kept him from thinking about Dara, and besides, he was finally learning to appreciate the concept of Operation Three-Card Monte.
It was the old shell game, pure and simple. If ATFOR didn't know where their prisoners were, they couldn't mount a rescue mission. And between the actual movements of prisoners, and the imaginary movements and shuttle schedules Dalton was feeding into the local airlock computers, there was no way the UN could sort them all out, even if they had penetrated LunaWeb—which presumably they had, since they no doubt had their own compspecs working every bit as hard as Dalton was.
He finished deleting some real transit records from the local computer and darted off to catch up with Britt and Jeff, who had just installed another MANTA disk. Much as Dalton hated to admit it, young Mahoney had been right. Once he'd gotten on Britt's good side—which, despite Akkerman's death, was something his actions during the Grimaldi Raid had managed to accomplish—the Cockney sergeant was willing to give him the shirt off his back. Probably the fillings from his teeth and the hair from his chest, too; Britt had an incredible tolerance for pain, which he'd demonstrated one night by biting the neck off a beer bottle.
The memory made Dalton's stomach churn. They'd been drinking TychoBrau that night, and Britt had knocked off a twelve-pack by himself. Jeff Mahoney had only made it through two bottles before he developed a compulsion to worship at the altar of the porcelain goddess, and Dalton had wisely remembered something Terrell Davis had told him years before: that TychoBrau was actually German for "urine sample."
He chased the memory away and rounded the corner, almost bumping into Britt and Jeff, who were coming back the other way. "You done already?" Dalton asked.
Jeff nodded. "Yeah."
"So what's next, Sarge?"
Britt fished a notepad out of his pocket. Paper and pencil may have been awfully low-tech way to transmit information, but it was harder to intercept than a bitstream. "Uh, next," Britt said, consulting his notes, "we report to Airlock D and pick up a prisoner sod to be transported back to Imbrium. That's—" He looked up and scratched his head.
Jeff pointed. "That way." To Dalton and Britt's questioning stares, he replied, "Hey, I used to come down here all the time with my dad. I know this particular piece of this rat's maze, like—" His sunny freckled smile failed. "Well, anyway, there's a FoodNet unit about half a klick down that way. We can grab something to eat on our way to the airlock."
The first two food selections came out blue and fuzzy, but the turkeyburgers seemed to be safe, edible, and just as appealing as on the day they were made. "Sorry," Dalton mumbled. "The peripheral systems are going a little wonky."
"Never mind." Britt took a bite out of the burger, and turned to Jeff. "So, Mahoney, what does your old man do?"
"Did," Jeff corrected. "Past tense. He's dead."
Britt looked down and mumbled, "Sorry I brought it up."
"Nah, not your fault. Dad was always getting into trouble. He was the black sheep of the family; met a girl from the wrong side of the freeway. You know the story. Dropped out of college to become a longshoreman; emigrated up here to be a spacedock worker. Mom got bored and took off when I was three; Dad got into the labor movement and became a union organizer."
Dalton finished chewing, swallowed, and wondered if he was brave enough to order up some FoodNet coffee. "So what happened to him? Accident?"
; Mahoney shook his head. "No. He tried to organize a shop that some friend of Kinthavong's didn't want organized. The SAS paid us a little visit in the middle of the night. Broke Dad's arms, then his legs. Then they got carried away and busted his skull. He never even woke up."
Dalton looked down at his suddenly unappetizing turkey burger. "Sorry. I really am."
Mahoney shrugged. "You didn't know. But now maybe you understand. I'm not in this for any big intellectual reason. For me this is personal."
Britt finished his own burger and started eyeing Dalton's uneaten half. "Not to be rude, what, but why'd you stay 'ere? Moon's a 'ell of a place for a kid alone."
"Dad had family, back on Earth," Jeff said, "but we were never close. I stayed up here because"—he lifted his hands, palms up, and looked around—"well, this is my home. I was born on Earth, but I don't remember it. This is where I belong." He looked down at his unfinished turkey burger, then scooped it up and threw it in the FoodNet recycling chute.
He stood up. "C'mon, Sarge, Dalt. Let's go collect our goddam prisoner and get over to Imbrium." Without waiting for a reply, Jeff stalked off.
Britt licked his fingers and looked at Dalton's half-eaten burger. "You going to ditch that?" Dalton nodded, and Britt scooped up the burger and darted after Jeff. Dalton fell in behind.
They met up with another LDF group at Airlock D and located their prisoner. She was a woman, clearly, and judging from the back and the way she filled out her blue jumpsuit, a young and good-looking one. Reddish blond hair, in a collar-length cut; lean, muscular physique, not tall, not short. Dalton and Jeff checked her out and elbowed each other like a couple of frat boys eyeing the newest sorority pledge, while Britt took possession of the keys to her cuffs and leg irons. Then the three of them strode forward to introduce themselves.
"Captain?" Britt barked out. The prisoner turned around.
Jeff's lower jaw nearly dropped off. "Aunt Bunny?"
Major Nakagawa
Given that the Moon was settled primarily by scientists, engineers, and agronomists, one question naturally arises: how did the Lunar Defense Force manage to come up with so many excellent high-ranking officers?
In one part, it was simple supply and demand. Just as it is easy to make the varsity ringball team in a town of 2,000, commissioned-officer status in the LDF was pretty much there for the asking, for anyone with military experience and an honest desire to join. And as few ex-military personnel aspire to be second lieutenants, some rank inflation was only natural.
As for the other part, the LDF acquired good officers because General Jackson was right: the final frontier was a magnet for disgruntled veterans, cashiered mavericks, and other idealists, romantics, and social misfits. And despite the UN's insistence to the contrary, there were defections from the ATFOR ranks, particularly during the latter stages of the campaign.
Consider Major Yuji Nakagawa, for example, a romantic if ever there was one. The middle son of a prominent Kobe shipping family, he spent his childhood dutifully studying mathematics and engineering and sweating his way through the series of examination hells that constitute the Japanese school system. But at night, when the lights were out and his parents thought he was safely tucked in bed, young Yuji would pull the covers up over his head, switch on his forbidden flashlight, and thrill for hours to tattered old books that told him the ancient stories of brave ronin and noble samurai. Then, when he could keep his eyes open no longer, he'd switch off the light and drift into a restless sleep, his dreams filled with the sight of brave men in lacquered armor, the sound of heroically clashing steel, and the distant siren call of Bushido.
Occasionally his father caught him reading. But the books and the flashlight were easily replaced, and the bruises soon healed. And in a way, the beatings were never half so painful as that one cold, silent stare his father gave him on the day he turned eighteen and announced that he was not going to Keio University but rather had enrolled in the Naval Academy at Eta Jima. Years of estrangement and silence followed, broken only by the terse fax of congratulations he received on the day he was promoted to first lieutenant and assigned to the Amatsukaze.
It was, as even his father had to admit, a plum of an assignment. The Amatsukaze was an absolutely state-of-the-art missile destroyer, barely two years old, and a proud national symbol of Nippon's reemerging role as a great world power.
The Okinawa Incident put an end to all that, however. China, acting through the Security Council, quickly realized it did not want another Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, and in a defanged Nippon there was no room for military machines like the Amatsukaze or for career officers like Yuji Nakagawa. So he spent a miserable six months in a cheap flat in Hiroshima, staring alternately at his navel and his knife blade, then decided to move to the one place where his experience in engineering and nuclear propulsion systems would be valued and welcome. He emigrated to the Moon.
—-Chaim Noguchi, A History of the Lunar Revolution
Chapter 17
Port Aldrin, Luna
Briefing Room, LDF Alpha Company
21 November 2069
20:15 GMT
A riding crop slapped sharply on the top of his computer monitor, snapping him back to the here and now. "Major? You're drifting off again."
Yuji looked up and blinked rapidly. "Sorry, sir." Colonel Emile Vachon was Gallic to a fault and, unfortunately, Yuji's commanding officer. "It won't happen again, sir."
"It had better not. You are perhaps suffering an attack of the attention deficit disorder?"
"No, sir. I was just thinking a moment about my family, back on Earth."
Colonel Vachon arched an eyebrow. "Oh? Perhaps there is some question of where your loyalties lie?"
A flash of bushido made Yuji's spine stiffen, and his short black hair bristled in anger. "Absolutely not, sir! I am proud to be a citizen of the Free State Selena and a loyal member of the Lunar Defense Forces, sir!"
Taken aback by Yuji's outburst, Colonel Vachon fumbled with his riding crop, then looked around at the other officers in the briefing room and recovered. "Yes, very good, Major Nakagawa. Now, the sooner we do our part in this little war, the sooner we can all talk to our families back on Earth again, n'est-ce pas? So if you would be so kind as to resume..."
With a faint blush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks, Yuji settled back into his seat and lifted his lightpen. "Right. We're now at T-plus-fifteen." He touched the light-pen to his monitor panel. "If all has gone according to plan, the commando squads will have penetrated the Lacus Mortis outer perimeter and set up MANTA receivers here, here, and here." Yuji tapped three points on the screen map, and left three pulsing orange dots behind. These were echoed on the rotating holographic map hovering in the center of the briefing room. "When we receive the confirmation signal, I will lead Alpha Company First Platoon through here." He circled the third MANTA dot, the one farthest from the dome, and drew an arrow pointing upward. "We will slip under the shield and secure the south airlock here"—he drew another circle and another arrow— "and begin a diversionary thrust toward the main reactor, here." He scrawled a thick X.
Colonel Vachon nodded. "Splendid. Major Thompson?"
Major Lloyd Thompson, commander Alpha Commander Third Platoon and sitting ninety degrees to Yuji's right, picked up his own lightpen and began drawing, this time in green.
"With any luck," Thompson drawled, "the dirts'll think Yuji's gang is a sapper squad, out to blow the reactor, and they'll shut down the ion shield and scramble the gunships. Not that the gunships'd do any good against soldiers inside the complex, but they won't want to risk losing the birds if they can't shut down First Platoon." Thompson paused and grinned as if he'd just run over a big fat armadillo.
"Personally, I expect those shields'll drop faster than a cheerleader's drawers, at which point I will lead Third Platoon through here." He circled the northernmost MANTA dot. "We'll grab control of the hangar and make sure none of those gunships actually get out'n the barn d
oor. Over to you, Terabi."
Major Benazir Terabi, commander Fourth Platoon, sitting opposite Yuji, looked to Colonel Vachon for approval to proceed and received a quick nod. "While Third Platoon is holding the north end of the gunship hangar," she began, "I will lead Fourth Platoon through here"—she circled the middle MANTA dot in yellow—"and secure the main gallery just south of the hangar area. This should prevent the Terrans from reinforcing the hangar security personnel and give Third Platoon sufficient time to seize the gunships intact or destroy them. At which point my team and I will deploy our MANTA receivers and be reinforced by two companies of colonial militia to complete the elimination of all resistance."
Colonel Vachon smiled and slapped his riding crop against his open palm in satisfaction. "Excellent! And I myself will wait with Major Chao and the Second Platoon, ready to provide reinforcement wherever it is needed. This is, I must say, a most brilliant and logical plan!"
" 'Course you'd say that," Thompson grumbled, apparently not realizing anyone could hear him. "It's your plan."
Vachon hadn't quite caught Thompson's words. "Comment? You had something to say, Major?"
Thompson screwed his face up in a thoughtful scowl, then threw his lightpen down on the console and went for it. "Beggin' the colonel's pardon, sir, but this idea of sending us in, in dribs and drabs all over the map strikes me as being about as bright as takin' a whiz on a fire ants' nest. We'll be spread out thin as a raccoon on Interstate 35. If just one of our teams runs into serious opposition—"
Vachon dismissed the objection with a wave of his hand. "Ah, do you not see? That is the beauty of this plan. We have the advantage of superior firepower and superior armor. If we strike them everywhere, we throw them into such confusion that they cannot possibly react in time."
"Confusion works both ways, sir," Thompson said, shaking his head slowly. "And besides, what about the intel reports that Lacus Mortis has been reinforced with a company of Quebecois light infantry?"